


The Slumber

by Quitebrilliantindeed



Category: Xenosaga
Genre: Angst, Death, Gen, Possession, Suicide, angst everywhere
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:41:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quitebrilliantindeed/pseuds/Quitebrilliantindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even at the end, you are never really alone. XSIII.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pit

**Author's Note:**

> This is less of a whole story in two chapters, and more of two vaguely intertwined stories with similar themes.
> 
> The first deals with the past.
> 
> The second will deal more with the present.
> 
> Both deal with the sweetest lil' kitten in the land-- I mean Gaignun. Do enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some music:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orRFRuv-Vco  
> (Bet you didn't see that one coming. ;D)

There are two “Gaignun Kukais.”

One wears his face like Sunday clothes. The other sits behind bars, and weeps.

There was a time when he was free for days without end. There was a time when he didn’t even have shadows to worry about.

Now, he sits, he waits, he sleeps.

“Ah…Next in line.” A voice says to him one day. It’s tired and so soft it might vanish into thin air. It speaks in an accent he’s never heard, not in all his travels and all the politics. It’s new, it’s ancient,  it’s foreign, and he has no idea how it got here.

“…What?” His own voice sounds muffled by the crook of his arms, but he doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have a body again—his consciousness wanes and waxes, pulling him in an out of sleep so encompassing, he sometimes forgets what his face really looks like.

“That’s you,” The voice says, pointing a finger at his chest. It’s long and pale. Gaignun follows its arm up to the body, eyes resting on the face of his visitor. He’s a young man, probably about his age. His hair is auburn and wavy, fluffing out around his ears and shoulders. His features are masculine, yet just delicate enough to bring a slight androgyny…

He stops, and clears his vision.

He looks a bit like Gaignun—no Yuriev. He looks like his father, rewound a hundred years.

“…Me? What—I—” Gaignun stammers, shuffling about the folds of fabric he lays in. He can’t make sense of this—this person, his face, his words. He’s getting unnerved, and it’s the last thing he needs right now. Yuriev is stirring—morning will come soon, and with it, another round of murder and deceit.

The man hushes him with a finger to his lips, reeling his thoughts back in. “You’re the next in _his_ line.” Gaignun blinks.  “Dmitri Yuriev.”

Oh. The grogginess is fading from his soul, and the words are slowly becoming coherent. He has an idea of what’s coming next, but he asks it anyway: “…What does that have to do with you?”

“I came before you. One before you, to be precise.” The man smiles—it’s painfully cheerful, and all too obviously a mask for a writhing ball of pain below him. “You killed me.”

“I—“ Gaignun swallowed, inching backwards. He felt so inelegant, a man in a prison, sleeping in his clothes and scrambling halfheartedly across the floor—a floor that barely even exists. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t know that he was…” He closes his eyes, hanging his head with shame. “I shot Yuriev— I didn’t mean to shoot the… host…”

“I know. It’s okay.” The man is kneeling beside him now, a hand on his shoulder. “I was long-gone by then anyway.” He pauses, and smiles sadly. “A couple decades gone, in fact…Funny that it was you who did the shooting, hm?”

“Hardly.”

He laughs. “Agreed.” It’s an awkward moment—two victims, sitting together in the depths of a mind and a body, discussing their doom with smiles on their faces. “In fact… thank you.”

“…Did it…?” Gaignun hesitates. “Hurt?”

“Oh no. As I said—I was long gone.” He gestures to his left chest, placing his fingers over his heart. He then moves the same hand across his body, and mirrors the movement on Gaignun. “You see, you’re just asleep right now. You haven’t given in yet. You’re stronger than I was.”

Fear steals Gaignun’s breath away. Death he can handle—death by his own hand, death by the world outside of him. It’s death by his father’s hand the frightens him. A death that leaves Yuriev still alive. He doesn’t like where this is going: “It’s true then…? My soul will be extinguished by… him? But if yours went out, then how are you—“

He shakes his head. “No—the ‘person’ you see is not actually ‘me.’ Think of it as a ghost… a…”

“An afterimage?” Gaignun breathes the words like they’re small demons, crushing down on him with a weight he can’t begin to fathom.

“Yes. I’m a record of a man who once existed, burned into the soul of Dmitri Yuriev. As for yourself…” He shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe you can hold on. I said it earlier—you’re stronger than I ever was.”

Gaignun is barely listening. He tries to, but the words can’t quite reach his ears, because he doesn’t _believe_ them. This man knows nothing—nothing of how pathetic and small he is. He’s the baby, the weakling, and always will be. He can’t ignore Albedo’s words any longer—that’s plain folly. “I thank you for your confidence.” He mumbles, reaching deep inside for the politician smile and laugh that he knows still exists somewhere. He wants to be strong—to be an authority, a pillar. But he’s fading away faster than he can keep up with, and this only confirms it. How long before Gaignun Kukai is dead, leaving a shadow no different than the one he now spoke with?

The man smiles again. It’s a grin that sticks with people—Gaignun is certain he was well-known for it in whatever brief lifetime he may have had.

“Do you at least have a name I can call you…?” Might as well ask—he hasn’t a clue how long his company will be staying for, but he at least wants to make it as nice as he can.

“No, no, not anymore.” The trademark grin slips a little as he brings his hands together, almost in a praying motion. It’s a bit odd—and a bit sad. “Not one that matters.”

Gaignun doesn’t know what to say to that. Something about that thought hurts him to the core— so much that he can’t stay on the topic. “Well… I’m glad you’re here, if it means anything?”

“It’s lonely, isn’t it?”

“It’s always lonely.”

Silence. Then:

“There are more, you know.”

 Gaignun lifts his head. “Of people like us? You…?”

He nods. “Would you like to meet them? They’re nothing like your father, I promise.”

Gaignun cracks a wistful smile. “I… it would be my honor.” It feels right—distinctly _right_ to do such a thing. He wants to honor them, give them proper respect and rest, even if their actual souls were roaming elsewhere. (Someplace far better, or so he hopes. He’s looking forward to going there.) Still—this is all a part of his mind, so if it seems real here, it might as well be real here.

The man reaches out and takes his hand. He lifts their bodies off the ground, dancing upward onto their toes. Then, they fall, fall into blackness, moving so quickly and so slowly that he can’t discern which is which, or the exact nature of what Gaignun’s mind has created.

It’s a pit—a pit with no end, only stops for them to get off at, one by one, until all the ghosts have been gathered.

The movement stops. They are pristine, hair and clothes unaffected and unharmed by their fall. Gaignun’s heart pounds steadily in his chest, but he knows, it’s not real. It doesn’t stop though—he likes it. It reminds him that he’s—no, it _keeps him_ —alive. Awake and alive.

The man lets go of his arm. Before them stand four people, bodies firm and opaque, refusing to be completely snuffed out by their captor.

He first one steps forward. It’s a man, brown-skinned, dark hair, and pale eyes. He’s short, dressed in lab coats and sweaters, thick boots upon his feet.

“I was the first.” His voice is low and raspy. “He took me right away—the second he came back from ‘that place,’ his body disintegrated and his soul shot forth.” He laughs, shoulders rumbling with violent little sobs stuffed underneath the words. “Make yourself the last. Please.”

Gaignun could not respond—he only wants to comply. The ‘first’ then turned on his heel, and stepped back into the line.

The next came up, feet stomping across the ground. It was a girl—no older than sixteen—brown hair pulled back tightly to the back of her head. “My name is Clarisse,” Her voice is loud—it stands its ground and refuses to let go. “I will not lose myself. I will not lose my name. I am _important_.”

It’s an inspiring sight—and confirms what Gaignun already knew. He is not strong.

“I am a woman. I was in my teens. I have brown hair and green eyes. I like to swim, I like to dance,” She enunciates each word clearly, wearing them all like badges on her chest. “I study astronomy. I drink coffee. I _hate_ guns.” She grits her teeth, and looks him in the eye. “And bastards like him.”

Gaignun bows his head. He wants to ask ‘how?’ How could someone so resolute, so grounded and certain of herself and her identity—how could she have fallen? He swallows, realizing that he does not want to know the answer.

The third one is not so kind. He steps forward, tall and wiry, pale blonde hair and eyes that refuse to look at anyone—“I did it for Dmitri Yuriev. I have no existence, other than him.” This is all he has to say. Gaignun knows he should respect that choice—but he cannot stop the horror planted in his chest.

The first man, with the auburn hair that fluffed and curled, leaned in against Gaignun’s shoulder, calming the storm of angry butterflies that rose in his stomach. “There were those who…believed in him…”

“I know.” Gaignun replies. He knows them. He knows Citrine, the Salvators, and half the handlers who raised him all those years ago. They put their hands over their hearts and swore their lives to his father, blindly following another man’s ambition as he led a parade onward to hell. He saw it with his own eyes for years and years, and he feels it now in the tendrils of his father’s soul that grab him by the wrists and the mouth and pull him back under the surface again and again.

The fourth one comes forward. His hair is shaggy and red, his face freckled, and his frame perfect in size. Something is distinctly ‘average’ about him—and it hurts Gaignun even more.

“Whatever it was,” Gaignun says, finding his voice just barely enough to speak first. “You didn’t deserve it.”

The boy looks up and out from underneath his bangs, mouth open in surprise. He then smiles, and lowers his head—“I got off easy. Five months, with him living in my head, before he found someone better, and left me behind.”

Gaignun feels a spark of hope—and blindly—perhaps in vain—reaches out for it: “Then—does the real you still live?”

The boy curls his arms around his chest, shakes his head. And turns away.

His chest hurts. There is an unspeakable discomfort lingering in there, stretching at his ribcage and threatening to drown his lungs. He’s swaying, stumbling, unable to concentrate—

The auburn-haired man faces Gaignun, grabbing his arm to pull his body and mind from the pain he’s blindly submerged himself with. He grips it tightly, holding his gaze, until Gaignun can rein himself back in enoguh to finally give his grim reply:

“I’m…not sure that was for the best.” He mumbles. His heart is too heavy to carry now. He wants to stare at the ground, and go back to his slumber.

“Perhaps not.” The man replies. The other four have disappeared now—it’s just Gaignun and his unfortunate predecessor. That’s probably a good thing, at least for now. “But do you regret it? I think those can be different things—at least sometimes.”

“No,” Gaignun assures him as quickly as his mouth can move. “It would be wrong to do otherwise. I just wish I could…”

“Help?”

Gaignun nods.

“Oh… oh dear.” The man sighs, rubbing his arm in a soothing circular motion. “You are too kind for all of this. Just remember—we are long gone. The people you see here—” He motions outward, as five faint portraits gradually materialize out of the blackness. “—Are nothing more than echoes of the real thing. There is nothing you can do.”

Gaignun stares out at the images, burning their faces into his memory—carving their nonexistent names into his soul, dying to remember those people who were, once upon a time, just like him.

He turns. An empty frame rests beside the portrait of the auburn-haired man, ready to greet and embalm him when his time came, and he could fight no more.

“Gaignun Kukai… or is it Nigredo…?”

Gaignun twists his head to face that man once again. His hands are now stuffed in his pockets, looking positively nonchalant, but it doesn’t change the fact that his body is fading away with each passing second.

“Don’t leave.” Gaignun whispers.

“I already have.”

“Then at least---”

“Marcel Laurence.” He calls, just as his shoulders and neck dissolve. “That was my—his—name.”

“…” Of course he would know. It shouldn’t be a surprise. “Thank you.” Gaignun calls, “I’ll see you… soon.”

Marcel is gone.

Hands reach out of the abyss. They grab his skin and cover his eyes, and pull him backwards through the picture frame. Time’s up—His body goes limp as it settles among the layers of cloth and chain, curling up inside the spacious prison.

Gaignun Kukai breathes out, closes his ‘eyes,’ and sleeps for a little while longer.

 


	2. The Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're so brave."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some mood music:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCjpbjCH5L0&feature=kp
> 
> :'D

“Wake up.”

A shaft of light is stretching across his face. His eyes are still shut, but he can see the stain of light changing the shade of darkness he’s been watching.

“Wake up.”  It repeats. The light extends over his body. He opens his eyes.

He once slept on a circle—a pedestal draped in white—but he finds himself alone in a cell these days. Of course, none of it is real. There are no bars, there are no pedestals—only his mind, and a deep, deep slumber.

Why is he waking up then? Could it be—

He reaches out with his mind, weakly feeling for an indication of what might be happening. He doesn’t like what he feels—there’s a battle raging outside. The grim truth is: Yuriev is stronger than ever. Gaignun is awake, because his father is not weak, but merely distracted.

Even then—‘awake’ does not do much for Gaignun. He was ‘awake’ all the time in the early days of possession—watching carefully from just beneath the surface, ready to reclaim his body at any potential opening. Now, he mostly slept, barely aware of the world and what transpired. He knew of the Durandal. He knew of Mary. He knew of Citrine. But those were all given to him in dreamlike flashes and vague cries of conscious existence—they are rare and they were treasured.

He wishes he were asleep. There’s nothing he can do right now, but watch his body move like a puppet, and strike down his brother and his friends.

Better yet, he could be dead—and Yuriev dead with him.

“Dead?” A voice asks. It’s different than the first one—harsher, deeper, more familiar— he lifts his head to meet it—

“Dead?! Oh, how rich—the little one hasn’t changed a bit!”

Gaignun rises to his knees. He digs for strength, and uses it to force out words: “Leave, Albedo.”

Albedo tilts his head, a sharp grin slowly puncturing his face. “I’m not real though. How can I leave?”

“I—I can make you go away.”

“If you can do that, why am I here in the first place?” Albedo laughs—a horrendous, never-ending laugh that makes him want to cringe. “I thought so! Now—entertain me, will you? Beg for escape! Reach through the bars of your cage and grab my hands! Or even better, my throat. Which one will it be—politician, or executioner?”

 The laugh goes on and on.

“Stop!” Gaignun demands. He covers his ears and closes his eyes—there’s no shame in breaking down here. This Albedo is not real—he need not wear a mask of calm and collection, and he’s had more than enough of this game. “J-just stop!”

“Do you envy my freedom?” Gaignun forces his eyes open, unable to take his eyes off the spectacle.  Albedo spins around, pacing back and forth in front of him and the wall of bars. “I never had to worry about pleasing daddy-dearest. I never had to worry about pleasing anyone! You know why--?”

Gaingun glares, and does not answer. He doesn’t care if this is only a fragment of his own mind, he still won’t give Albedo the satisfaction of winning.

“Because I don’t care. About anyone, but me—and by extension, Rubedo. I don’t worry if daddy hates me, because daddy already does!”

“That’s a non-issue.” Gaignun retorts. He swallows the biting anger—such an accusation is unacceptable, but he won’t go so far as violent retaliation. “I don’t want to please him—this isn’t my choice.”

“Mmm?” Albedo asks, stepping in towards the prison.  “Eh... maybe so. But you’re purpose—it’s still your purpose, is it not? At least I’ve never been bound by such… petty issues.” A grim light of realization crosses his expression, turning it even more sour and gross. “Oh no. No, no no! This is too good. Say what you want about father, but you can’t deny the other side of that coin, can you? I don’t worry about love, because no matter what, Rubedo already loves me!” He snickers, this time right to Gaignun’s face. It’s loud—so blaringly loud, it feels like there’s nothing else in this world but Albedo and his _damned laugh._ “You envy that, don’t you, _chaton_?” Silence. “You want him, you want him, you want him! You’ll never have him though, especially if you keep sitting around like this!”

“I already told you to stop--!” Gaignun raises his head, meeting Albedo’s gaze for the first time since his arrival. It does the trick—he steps back into the shadows, a smile on his face as they swallow him whole.

Gaignun can finally breathe. He curls his knees against his chest, and does just that.

“Gaignun.”

His even breaths turn sharp, and he turns, scrambling to his feet as elegantly as he can manage, at the sound of the next voice.

“Gaignun… it’s a shame to see you like that.” Helmer shakes his head in dismay as he enters the room, hands quietly locked behind his back. “You’re a proud man. A good man. They shouldn’t be able to do this to you.”

Gaignun lowers his head, a feeling akin to shame rising up his chest. A multitude of lies had become the definition of their relationship in recent days—he had to hide everything—not just about Dmitri, but also his very wellbeing. This man was a statue—a pillar and an icon to the child in his heart and he had failed him. His life had fallen apart—and he feared the disappointment that he was bound to become. The words came to his mouth before he could even think, because real or not, he wanted to say it:  “I’m sorry. I never intended for it to end up this way…”

“Who said it was your fault?” Helmer looks taken aback by such words—he shakes his head. Gaignun’s muscles loosen—despite everything, it’s somehow comforting to hear. “No. You’ve always been too hard on yourself—too sweet to blame others and too determined to set a lower bar. No, no—you’re the victim of unfortunate circumstances. From the day of your birth, until now, you’ve never been handed an easy deck of cards.”

“No—“ Gaignun insists. He’s had his fair share of struggles—but it hasn’t been all gloom, has it? Helmer is the one being modest, not him.  “—I was fortunate to meet you. I was fortunate to have what I had…It meant everything to me. To say anything else would be…giving me too much credit.”

Helmer smiles faintly, and Gaignun almost forgets that it’s just an illusion.

“See what I mean?” Helmer steps forward finally removing his hands from behind his back. “I’m still proud of you—even if you aren’t.” He’s holding a key—he puts it in the lock, and pushes the cell door open. Gaignun can only stare in awe—he doesn’t understand any of this, least of all the sudden gesture. If he goes for it, will it close again? Even if he leaves, will it make a difference?

“I know what you’re thinking—“ Helmer interrupts. “No, I’m afraid. It won’t free you—but it’s a step in the right direction.”

“…How though?” Gaignun can’t make heads or tails of it—how could a—a hallucination—grant him a step towards freedom?

“Think of it as a… reminder. A strengthening of your will. Like the day you took that new name…” Helmer places a fatherly hand upon his shoulder, and catches his gaze. “Look at how tall you’ve gotten…” He chuckles gently to himself like a proud father, and shuts his eyes. “I’ve always wanted to say that, but it would have been mighty strange to say that to the Chairman of the Kukai Foundation. “ He removes his hand, and turns away, calling out one last reminder: “Be proud. I am.” And then he’s gone, leaving Gaignun alone once more.

He looks around. It’s an empty room of black shadows and white lights. There’s no floor, no ceiling, no walls or doors—not even the cell he had once sat in exists any longer.

He’s in emptiness—in limbo, a place in between awareness and the sleep of a soul.

There’s nothing he can do but wait—and keep standing. Yes. No matter what, he will not sit down again.

“Is that because you know the end is near?” 

Gaignun turns to the next voice. He’s getting used to this pattern now—it’s much less of a shock. However, this one is different—it’s higher-pitched and feminine—and it belongs to the dead.

“Citrine…” He mumbles. “It’s good to see you.” He opens his arms in a gesture of peace—he knows she’ll strike it down, but he’s not about to give up, not even post-mortem.

“Don’t give me that,” She hisses, strutting into the lights. He expression is bitter and unrelenting as she moves, eyes fixing on his form. “You were always like this. Too wistful. Too sentimental. I loathe the day you were conceived—I’ve never met a more useless weapon in my life.”

He almost laughs to that—it’s ironic, it’s a compliment for him and an insult to her. Which one did she mean? He hopes the former is buried in there somewhere. “…I’m glad.”

Her gaze is like a knife. “Show me your wrath, not your sympathy. You must have it somewhere…”

“…Please.” Gaignun begs. He doesn’t want to deal with this right now. Although he knows it’s all a lie, it doesn’t soil how miraculous it is to hear her voice and see her face in motion again. He’s happy to see her—he doesn’t want it soured by old feuds.

Citrine cracks her neck, and comes to a halt in front of him. “Stop offering friendship. Stop. You were always afraid of me—don’t think I didn’t know that. So what was the…” She pauses, searching for the words to criticize him with. Gaignun can’t help but wonder how much it even matters—their mindsets are so vastly different that any word, any comment or insult takes on a vast and complicated meaning between them. “… what was the _kindness_ about? What was it _for_?”

“Nothing,” Gaignun replies, almost desperate to quell this growing anger. He’s fighting the urge to back away now—she’s shorter by several centimeters, but he knows she’s far stronger, and infinitely better trained. “I thought you were were lonely—I was lonely too—so I gave it a shot.” She wobbles at this—something about his words are nagging at her. His heart leaps—it’s a start, a tiny foothold—“I’m sorry—”

That was it—the snapping point. She grabs him by the neck, pulling him toward her before she twists him around, hands pinned behind his back.

His head hangs limply, hair falling into his eyes, blinding him from the dull world. His shoulders ache at the strain Citrine puts on them, creaking as she pulls them back a hair farther still.

“Show me something!” She growls. “Show me you aren’t pathetic!”

“I _am_ pathetic!” Gaignun cries “I’m sorry—I’m sorry that I could never be what you wanted, or—“ His breath catches in his lungs as a snap sounds through the air. He feels the pain, even in this imagined shell of his body, but does not speak or scream. He stands on, arms falling limply down to dangle crookedly at his sides, as Citrine releases her hold, and takes a single step backwards.

She hits him—swiftly across the back of his head with the same cutthroat precision she always delivers. He stumbles at the blow, swaying, desperately fighting for use of his mangled arms—but stays up. He turns around, searching for her face and her forgiveness, but she is already gone.

He crouches down, helpless to whatever comes next. He knows, even in the illusions, that he has failed both of them once again.

He wants to move, or search for an exit, but for every fiber of his body that desires it, there’s another that wants to stay here, crouched and pathetic, just as Citrine had said. He wants to take it all in—understand what is going on and where this might be going. He wants to lament every failure, every friendship, every feeling— he wants the encounters to stop, for even the kinder ones are growing miserable, and this frail image of his body and heart cannot take much more.

But of course, he’s not in control. They come anyway, regardless of his will.

“Master Gaignun!” It’s a strange accent that greets him next. He swallows—there’s only one person he knows who talks like that.

“Master Gaignun…!” The next voice is calm and deep. He isn’t at all surprised to hear it—they always come in a pair.

He’s suddenly standing again, gently lifted up by the Godwin sisters, one on either side. They pull him to his feet and look up at him, all wide-eyed and painfully eager to help.

“Thank you—“ He suddenly realizes how odd it really is to talk so passionately to these specters. He’s basically talking to himself—is he not? It’s embarrassing to think of it like that, but what else can he really do…? “—I’m sorry to have caused you trouble.”

“Pshh,” Mary waves a hand. “It’s our job to keep ya outta trouble. You and the Little Master both.” She beams. Shelley gives a small smile—which, for her, might as well be the same thing.

“It’s funny,” Gaignun begins. He knows what he’s about to say is out-of-the-blue and strange, but if it’s all in his head—why even bother trying to carry a normal conversation? He needs to let it go. “When I started the Foundation, I was worried…”

“That you’d become some greedy, gluttonous little slug?” Mary offers, exaggerating each word with a twisted delight.

“A selfish bastard?” Shelley adds bluntly at the end.

Gaignun laughs. His arms no longer hurt—he could even move them a bit. It’s nice—if not a little disorienting. “I suppose so. Business leaders and politicians, as you know, aren’t exactly…”

“That’s silly though,” Mary insists, taking his hand. Shelley follows suit, mimicking the movement with a different kind of grace. “You can’t be like that—and that’s why you’re so good at what ya do!”

Shelley nods. “She’s right. You’ve all the right qualities—the practicality and strength, but minus the excessiveness and selfish drive—making you, really, the perfect leader.”

Gaignun shakes his head.  He hasn’t heard this much praise in a long time—he’s almost forgotten how to receive it. “No—that’s…I owe a lot to you two.”

“Naw, we just do what we can,” Mary squeezes his hand, eyes lighting up as she begins to speak: “We owe a lot to _you_.”

He opens his mouth to speak, to give his thanks and throw up a wall of modesty, but nothing comes out. A grip of panic rises in his chest, before he quickly changes the subject, too embarrassed to let the current one continue.  Besides—there’s something he wants to ask, both to them, and to himself. “What do you think then—“ It’s not an easy question by any means, and it can’t be answered as simply as ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Still, he can’t help himself—it just seems important. “—Did we do well?”

“Excellent.” Shelley replies almost instantly, but her image begins to fades away. His heart skips and stutters in his chest, from both her words and her slowly dissolving form.

“Yeah.” Mary nods, even as her body does the same. “We did great—you did great.” Their hands then slip away from his as their very existence fizzles out and back to the innermost sections of his mind. Gaignun knows it’s just an image, but it still hurts. He doesn’t want them to go—he needs their support, their talents, their companionship. He needs his _sisters_ —they’re more of that than Citrine ever was.

He lifts his head, squinting away the tears. It seems they hadn’t left without a gift—there’s something on the horizon now—a light, a blip, a shadow, he can’t tell. But it’s something—and all planning and caution be damned, it’s worth aiming for.

The light isn’t small for long—it grows and wobbles before it rips open into a swirling mass of white and black, like some sort of tear in his inner universe. He can’t look—it hurts his eyes and his heart—so he covers them with his hand, and turns away.

It’s still not enough—the blemish is growing, extending all around his world, engulfing the blackness in a washed out white glow. He flinches and crumples, barely aware that he’s breaking his resolve not to sit or fall. His hands clutch at his head and tangle with his hair—it’s terrifying, right to the very core, and worst of all, he’s unable to make heads or tails of what it might mean. He feels weak—he feels strong—he feels afraid. He can’t open his eyes—not yet--!

“Is that what you’re going to do then?”

“…I?!” Gaignun’s eyes open. Slowly, he lowers his hands from his eyes—he moves with caution though, because he know this voice, and has come to fear it even more than he did as a child. It’s not a piece of his mind this time around—it’s a full human spirit that has come to assault him.

A pain stabs him in the chest, and suddenly, he is _aware._ He can see the world outside him as if his body was still his own. He can feel the wounds Dmitri has sustained, he can see the faces of Jr—of those he holds dear. He feels the pulse and quiver of the strange beast they’ve entered—the power surging from within the Ark, and the gates to heaven and hell opening above and below him. He feels Jr. He feels Albedo. He feels sadness and hatred and beauty in the depths of pain—and he knows what he wants. He knows what he can do.

It’s time—isn’t it? It’s like ‘Albedo’ said—he never changes.

Gaignun smiles to himself, bitter in his pool of confidence and fear. And although it takes every last ounce of strength, he rises to his feet, and stands in the face of his father.

“That’s it?” His father taunts, stepping towards him in this blank-white world. “You’re giving up?”

“It’s—it’s not like that.”

A look of disgust passes over his face—it’s one Gaignun has seen before. He always was a disappointing child, from the flowers he loved, to the gun in his hand—he never did anything right for Yuriev. “How pathetic.”

“Perhaps. But I’m ready—I’ve been ready for a long time.” Gaignun doesn’t blink or falter—he keeps staring on ahead.

“I can feel your heart as much as you feel mine—don’t try to hide anything.” Yuriev spits. “Think of it! You’re abandoning yourself to sloth--! You’re not going to try to live? Keep searching for other options? This will bring you no escape! Who’s to say you won’t be sent right back to where you began?”

Gaignun looks down, fingers twisting at his sides in an onslaught of pain. “I rather take us both out.”

A breeze blows past him, warm and pleasant against his face. He feels a thousand voices and a couple of gentle hands, pulling him up to his full proud height. They all whisper the same thing:

 _“You’ve been so brave,”_ Mary and Shelley, and Helmer, and Jr all whisper in his ear. _“You’ve been doing this all on your own.”_ Sakura and Albedo, even Citrine, all hold his arms and hands and support his weight. _“It’s almost time! Almost, almost, almost…”_

He lifts his head and pulls himself free—just barely—just enough to say what’s been in his heart from the moment Yuriev stole his body and ran:

_“Kill me! Hurry. Right now, while I have my will, it's possible! Hurry!”_

He looks back to Yuriev—writhing and panting in just as much pain as he is. Good—he can do this. Jr. can do this. He has to trust—has to believe— it’s all going to work out—

No.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to go--!

The strength of the link washes over his system—he can’t deny it. He feels the pain and the joy of his brothers and father—he feels their wishes and their fears. He feels his own anger— his own panic, his love, his own growing terror—and knows what he has to do.

Because… he was never really meant to be, right?

He’s a wisp—but they—they are people. And they deserve everything.

Yes—

\--Happiness was never for him. It was for him to give to others. And as long as he exists, his love could never blossom, and his heart could never rest.

Take the eraser, and wipe it all out.

Make the world beautiful—make them beautiful. Don’t let them settle for anything else. Give them what they want—no, need.

Take it—

Erase himself.

What better way to go out…? Than with a wish…?

“No! No… no, you’re not—you can’t…!” Jr.—Rubedo—whispers it like a prayer. “Why are you doing this? Talk to me, Nigredo! Talk!”

Gaignun shifts, mind racing at the scene spilling out before him. No. He’s not Gaignun—that was never his name. It’s a veneer—it’s the man he wanted to be, not the man he was born to become.

He sighs like a gust of wind, and turns, chest full of pins and needles, to meet his love. “I rather you be happy.”

“This isn’t going to make me happy…!” Rubedo is crying—he wants to look away, but he can’t. He needs to remember his face, so he can hold onto it, even when his consciousness is pushed away to wherever it’s heading. Sad or happy-- he wants his face to be the last thing he sees.

He smiles, and shakes his head. “It’s—it’s more complicated than that.”

“I’ll be alone! You’re leaving me alone--!”

“You’ll have Albedo—as he was meant to be.” Not the broken pieces they had come to know.

“…What if I want you too?”

If only that were possible. “You can’t. You know that…” His voice comes out smooth and calm—so much so that it even surprises himself.

“…I don’t want to know that! Not if it… not if it means…” He sniffs and wipes his sleeve across his swollen eyes. Nigredo smiles. He’s ruining that jacket—he can only hope that Rubedo will remember to wash it once everything is over.

“Come now. It won’t be that bad…” Gaignun wishes he could move—he wants to step forward and pull him into his arms—just hold him one last time and tell how he deserves the whole world— “It never is. Remember? When we thought our lives were over, they had only just begun. We created a world. We…” He isn’t sure how to word this—he can’t convey the emotion in his chest. It’s too much, and time is too short. “We did well. We made good things. We had good times.” He can feel his life flickering—he can’t hold on much longer. Any second, he’ll reach Albedo’s body and then—“Rubedo--?”

“…Yeah?”

“It was good to be alive. Even if it was only for a bit...” He can feel the tears welling up in his eyes—and begrudgingly, turns away. “Even if it was never meant to be.”

“Wait!”

“…I love you.”

He takes every last piece of strength and puts it into one last gift.

_“This is your true form…”_

And then he finally says goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> The auburn-haired man's ("Marcel's") general appearance is taken from that of Yuriev's in Xenosaga: Pied Piper. Go read that, if you haven't! ;D


End file.
